The physician smiled, and looked round inquiringly.

"Has any one seen a dog that was on the train?"

One of the brakemen, a stout Irishman, took his pipe from his mouth,
and answered:

"Aye, aye, sir! and as vicious a brute as ever I set eyes on. Both
his hind legs were smashed--dragged so--and I tapped him on the head
with an axe to put him out of his misery. Yonder he now lies on the
track."

Edna put her hand over her eyes, and turned her face down on the
grass to hide tears that would not be driven back. Here the surgeon
was called away, and for a half hour the child lay there, wondering
what would become of her, in her present crippled and helpless
condition, and questioning in her heart why God did not take her
instead of that dimpled darling, whose parents were now weeping so
bitterly for the untimely death that mowed their blossom ere its
petals were expanded. The chilling belief was fast gaining ground
that God had cursed and forsaken her; that misfortune and
bereavement would dog her steps through life; and a hard, bitter
expression settled about her mouth, and looked out gloomily from the
sad eyes. Her painful reverie was interrupted by the cheery voice of
Dr. Rodney, who came back, accompanied by an elegantly-dressed
middle-aged lady.

"Ah, my brave little soldier! Tell us your name."

"Edna Earl."